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Really, Jas thought, there should be some law enacted against little waifish park rangers and six inch studded heels because he was feeling criminal and he hadn’t when he agreed to meet Miss Briar Rose Jour. Their meetings had been, until then, strictly reserved to terse phone conversations during which he had been called, not necessarily in this order—a cad, a son of a bitch, a high-priced pirate, a soulless corporate mongrel with no sense of loyalty or decency—and really for a voice as lyrical as Miss Briar Rose Jour’s—conservationist and glorified tour guide of the little podunk forest reserve Storybrooke, Maine (almost as minuscule and unimportant as the reserve itself) touted like it was some sort of Yellowstone—had possessed it had grated, and Jas had found himself gritting his teeth over some rather colorful and creative comebacks, reminding himself that he a) was a gentleman, b) caught more flies with honey, and c) would have the satisfaction of taking her patrician face (he imagined it to be patrician, a Victorian throwback to those too tightly laced ladies who’d never had a good fuck) and her elegant words and tossing them out of the window with a crunch. Money talks, sweetheart, he imagined saying to her pinched, wrinkled face, and everyone hears my voice.
Except this glorious plan of revenge was fast becoming blue-balled because Briar Rose Jour was many things, but old was not one of them. And there were heels. And was there a skirt? Jas made a show of popping the joints in his neck so he could crane his gaze around the side of the woman’s desk. Oh yes, there was a skirt—neon pink, just edging into the legal limit of decency, and stockings, white and frilled at the tops, kissed with a matching pink bows. God and the heavens save him from frilly stockings and matching pink bows, Jas thought, but God and the heavens were cruel because he was already straining against his slacks. What was the hell kind of park ranger was she, wearing heels and skirts and those damn bows?
“You’re Briar Rose?”
“Miss Jour,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose—it was cute as button, her nose, and it made his eyes track down to the cupid’s bow pucker of her mouth. “Mr. Hook, I trust you had some reason of importance in requesting this meeting?”
Well, he had but now he was adjusting his priorities. He couldn’t help it if he liked women, especially pixyish ones with sex-kitten mouths and bloody pink bows planted at the tops of blushing, dimpled knees like a cherry on a sundae.
“I came here, Miss Jour,” Jas said, “to kindly request you stop picketing in front of my construction crew.” Did she picket in that get up? Because that would explain a lot of the complaints.
Her little chin angled as if to say why should a princess do anything a peasant asks of her? With a huff she pushed from her desk. She had a lime-green polo tucked into the skirt, a contrast of colors that really shouldn’t work as well as it did, and it shouldn’t make his mouth water like he was preparing to sit down in front of a particularly delectable all-you-can-eat buffet—I’d eat her, a wormy little voice chortled at the back of his mind.
“I will do no such thing, Mr. Hook,” she said on a derisive sniff, her words accompanied by an actual hair toss. “I have my papers in order with the sheriff, my protests are peaceful. You don’t understand the sort of damage you’re doing here. The Storybrooke Forest Reserve is a precious piece of Maine’s history, and it’s home to a large portion of wildlife that you’d be displacing by building your—your—”
“Condominiums,” he supplied absently, eyes focused on the glittery nail polish spackled on her toes. That was getting all his juices flowing, and he figured that was rather telling about how long it had been since he’d had a dancing partner other than his hand.
“Condominiums,” she sneered the word as if it were some vile insect crawled recently out of the primordial soup. “Did you know that this reserve is home to breed of orchid that can’t be located anywhere else in America? And its roses are…”
Her voice faded into soft, white static as Jas found his eyes making a slow, looping path upward, to where her hot pink skirt hinted at ivory, soft thighs. He amused himself wondering what sort of underwear she was wearing. Somehow, Jas didn’t think little prim Miss Jour went about without—oh, but what a thought! And his cock stood up in rapid agreement—but he could see her in a thong, very lacy and white, possibly pink but definitely of the pastel persuasion. She was still going on and on, but her heels had these adorable little peep-toes and Jas imagined easing one off, and then the other, and mouthing his way up to those damnable pink bow because he was sure as hell leaving the stockings on—maybe he’d never let the stockings come off—and easing his fingers up, passed the hemline of her skirt, and into dark, hot territory of—oh, Miss Jour would definitely be the breathy sort, and he could already hear the very soft oh that would escape her rosebud lips and eventually Jas imagined he’d get around to kissing those too.
Everything about her said princess, spoiled rotten and loving it, so he imagined her men were given to worshipping, touching her like you’d touch something sacred, reverent and awe inspired, so Jas’d go out of his way to take her down and dirty. Possibly over the desk. Jas glanced at the desk, painstakingly polished and gleaming a rich mahogany—no, definitely over the desk. He imagined it would offend her refined sensibilities, to be tossed unceremoniously over the edge of the desk, but she’d like it too. Oh, yes she’d be the sort to play at being affronted but she’s enjoy the manhandling—a lot; and he’d manhandle her in every which way she wanted. There wasn’t much to the skirt—had she warn it just to distract him? If so, bravo because it was working the nth degree and if not, well, good thing he wasn’t a possessive sort of man—and it would only take a few tugs to get it up around her waist and then he’d be looking at nothing but the sweet, white swell of her ass and well it would take a man much stronger than he not to nibble at it, so nibble he would. She’d jerk, but he’d put a hand along the small of her back to hold her in place. Jas imagined she’d taste very clean, like rainfall in the jungle, and also that she’d be very, very wet.
Because, oh yes, Miss Jour had to be the sort to get wet, especially over people who didn’t go about treating her as if she were made of fine-blown glass. He’d want a taste of that too, and would dip his fingers inside her; he’d like to think his hand would be nigh soaked with her arousal, because Jas didn’t think he was what she had imagined him to be either, and she was wearing stockings, pastel and bows notwithstanding and that meant something. That meant that however prim and tart she was, she had a gooey inside and he’d be more than happy to lick himself to her center.
“Are you listening to me?” Miss Jour demanded soundly, and her heel crashed down on the linoleum floor, clacking noisily against the tile, jerking him out of the daydream. “Mr. Hook—”
He glanced up at her, and there was no way she didn’t know exactly what he was thinking about—specifically her bent over the desk and he parting her thighs and plowing into her, roughly and hotly, and her mewling little cries filling up this office space like water in a wineskin and his teeth set into her shoulder because the body who didn’t mark her, brand her, let all the other bucks know to back the fuck off because this one was all his was the biggest idiot this side of the Atlantic.
Her coloring went high, splotches of bright, burning red that leaked downward, over her shoulders and across her neck and if she so much as gave a single inclination then he was all for following that flushing trail with his mouth, wherever it went. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a rampant erection since he’d caught sight of the heels, but now it was a painful insistence, his cock very much saying—if you don’t get me in that in the next five minutes you are not going to be very unhappy when I’m through with you.
“We should grab dinner,” he said but he really meant—I want to eat you.
“Excuse me?” Her voice was just a tad squeaky.
“Dinner. You. Me.” Clothing optional. He didn’t think that would earn him brownie points, and he suddenly really wanted brownie points.
“Mr. Hook—”
“Jas.”
“Mr. Hook.” Miss Jour set her teeth. “You are quite possibly the rudest, uncouth—”
“Uncouth?” Well there was a word he hadn’t heard in a while, and he liked the way her diction flowed from of her lips like a lovely Renaissance painting.
“—pain in my—” She stopped abruptly, sending him a glower. Jas only grinned. Yes, it was probably for the best she didn’t finish that insult because his reply would have proven her right—rude, crude, and oh-so welling, sweetheart—so she snapped, “blight upon my existence. If you think for one second I’d torture myself by spending a moment longer in your presence than I absolutely had to, you’re off your rocker.”
“Ah but, you see, I remember when we talked on the phone certain promises were exchanged between you and I,” Jas pointed out, rocking back in his chair.
She sent him a glower out of her periphery. “What?” she grounded.
Curiosity, sweetheart, and you’re a cat. “You said you were—what was it? Oh yes—going to ‘give me a tongue lashing I would never forget’?”
She snarled. “You can see yourself out, Mr. Hook.” She stormed out in a tornado of clicking heels and tawny hair, slamming her door behind her.
All but melting into his chair, Jas shifted uncomfortably before lifting a hand and patting his raging cock, so stiff that he was sure it was going to have a damn zipper indentation on it once he found the nearest bathroom in which to take care of himself—likely by imaging taking Miss Jour sideways against the sink.
Good God, man, his cock seemed to say.
Sighing, Jas said, “I know. I know.”